His Own Planet
by hetalitard
Summary: As a comatose America barely clings onto life, England struggles desperately to drag him back before another death occurs amoung the remaining nations. ONESHOT, AGAIN. Hints of UsUk/ UkUs.


Alfred was left sitting in pure, inky clouds of grey. He could hear subtle voices, somewhere amidst that cloud, but yet he couldn't bring himself to listen to the words directly, to actually pay attention. A nagging voice in his mind spoke, telling him that _maybe the people were worried?_ _Maybe they wanted to know what was the matter?_ But Alfred wasn't quite sure if he was listening correctly or not. Several voices would speak, muffled and small in his mind, only a mere whisper.

His whole body felt numb, pins and needles gently pricking here and there. He couldn't even feel his pain anymore, either way. It was frigid, and cold. So cold, he wasn't shivering. So cold, he wasn't cold. He just felt the throb of his own heart inside his chest. Pounding. Pounding. Was it slowing? Was it even changing? Was it even moving at all? Everything was tar black. He couldn't see anything, and he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. If his eyes were even there anymore. A familiar voice seemed to jolt through his conscience, and Alfred could feel his body jerk almost violently, as if being shaken from a dream, as if he dreamt he tripped and fell over the edge of a lone cliff. It went quiet, and he felt himself start to calm, to relax back into that vague calm. Then, the voice again. Cutting through, loud as a crack of thunder. He jerked again, and suddenly, all that silent blackness was gone, replaced with a bright light. Too bright. Alfred could feel his pupils diliate. Returned back to the dark. Something warm was on his shoulder, on his chin, down his forehead. He felt himself being drawn closer to the warmth, to that heat he suddenly yearned for. He needed it. He wasn't dead, a nation cannot die. So he was alive. The warmth shook, heavy. His head felt like lead, and he couldn't lift it up. The lead, was weighing him down. Another violent jerk, another warm shake on his shoulder. More warmth down his chin. Red dots filled the black space, and it faintly reminded him of superheroes flying in space, landing on the red planet, on Pluto, the red planet, right? Or... was it something else... He felt his thoughts being pulled down, sinking deep. He watched in solitude as the red dots grew larger, until they were so big, all the black was gone. He had landed on the red planet. Ready for take-off, roger. The warmth faded off, and the cold ate at him again. The warmth, gone gone gone.

Arthur Kirkland stood over a comatose Alfred, emerald eyes frantically searching the bloodied face for any sign of listening. Was that twat even listening, was he paying attention? A painful lump formed in his throat, choking him off, feeling his air come through less and less. One hand quickly jutted out, giving Alfred's shoulder a somewhat rough shake, his voice coming out hoarse, cracked. It didn't sound like him, he didn't recognize his own voice. "H-Hey, America..can't you hear me? Bloody wanker.. get up.. listen to me, damnit!" A sudden jerk of Alfred's body made Arthur retract his hand slightly in surprise, in retaliation. Had he overdone the cursing? He started to feel guilty, but to his remorse, Alfred went still yet again. This led for England to latch onto his shoulders again, leaning over him. A sickening, twisting knot was in his stomach, reminding him of pale green. Beside him, North Italy stood, trembling madly, honey-colored eyes widened in fear. England's eyes wandered uselessly, seeing blurred images of the blood stained floor, from bodies being dragged along to rest againest the wall. Germany, dead. Japan, dead and leaned againest the white, pearl-colored piano. Prussia, gone. All of them were gone. Canada was barely there, sitting beside Alfred with a look of horror on his face; he looked a mess, blonde hair like Alfred's all messy and matted with blood, glasses crooked, tear stains on his bloody face. England looked back quickly to America, beneath him, simply lying there, his breathing so shallow you wouldn't know he was alive by just looking at him. You had to be right there. Right there to be able to feel the small, wheezed pants. America's glasses were gone, who knows where. He gave another shake to his shoulder, the panick rising, his head giving a painful pound, eyes frantically searching for another sign of response. Anything.

**Nothing.**

Arthur froze, a choked sob coming from his tightened throat. His chest felt hollow, he felt hollow. His head ached behind his eyes. Another shake on the American's shoulder, more pitiful. Lacking hope. "H-...Hey, you stupid..git, you better open your eyes. I know you're.. you're playing a bloody joke, and it's not- not funny!" From the soft shaking on his cold shoulder, Alfred's head gently turned to the side, the thick river of blood running from his mouth dripping to the wooden floor he was laying on. Of all people, of all. He was the hero, he always said. Italy watched quietly as England's head dropping onto Alfred's shoulder, replacing his hand. Canada pretended he couldn't hear the loud sobs and yells, so miserable sounding. Canada slowly turned his head away, a terrible soreness developing in his throat.

Alfred, the hero. He really was a hero, but in the end, he had succumb to a brave death protecting those around him.

Have fun flying, Alfred. America. Bugger, Hero. Brother.


End file.
